A Chain of Storms
by xhidexandxseekx
Summary: Genesis and Sheol, the two sects of the Afterlife, have for centuries fought a crusade known as the Silent War. Now the war is at its height, but the outcome is grim, and the two sides begin to share more than they'd ever admit. [ORIGINAL, AAR INSPIRED]
1. Genesis: Kess

Kess

The rain beat against the side of the house as it plummeted from the smoky sky. Thunder shook drenched sidewalks, made bowed blades of grass shiver, and the water ran in rivulets on the concrete as if frantically running for cover in the cracks between the blocks of cement sidewalk. The girl, standing in the grass not far from the street, hugged herself and twisted her upper body side to side; her ruffled, spaghetti-strapped dress clung to her, weighed down by summer rain. She pushed sopping burgundy hair out of eyes pale as a cloud and smiled at the young man who stood beside her. "Jarrah," she begged, "take me flying?"

He laughed, the sound not quite a low rumble in his chest. "Kess, I shouldn't be using my wings so often," he scolded, but despite his protests, Kess slipped her hand into his and met his eyes, her gaze pleading. Jarrah chuckled again, the wise look in his eyes betraying his seemingly young age. "No, Kess. Not today." He shut his eyes for a moment, fell deep into himself, became still. "Tomorrow." He opened his eyes again. "It'll storm again tomorrow night." He moved to walk away but didn't let go of the girl's hand, so, slightly disappointed, she was forced to follow him. "Let's go inside," he suggested, his eyes twinkling. "You're entirely too wet."

Kess scoffed and spun around in the downpour. "I love the rain!" Then she sighed, glancing at her friend and catching his eye. "Oh. Fine."

She led the way into her house, climbing up three sturdy, stone stairs to a wide, wooden porch. Pale halos of light from the porch lamps--oil lamps, their wicks almost completely burned down--revealed three wicker chairs, white, with flowered cushions that would now be damp from the weather. A wind chime made of shells clattered loudly in the wind, but Kess ignored that and smiled at Jarrah as she gathered first her dress, then her hair, in her hands and wrung them out. Droplets of water plopped to the porch floor into a puddle around her bare feet. Jarrah reached out to twist the doorknob and push the door open as Kess pulled her hair into a bun at the back of her head.

"Why is it so dark?" he queried. He flicked a switch just inside the door; nothing happened. No light, just darkness pierced through by the occasional flicker of lightning. Frowning, he turned back to Kess.

"Crap!" she said in a voice just louder than a mutter. Something like impatient despair shifted in her chest and she sighed. "The power's out again." She walked over to the door, her wet feet leaving footprints on the wooden planks that made up the porch. She hoped vaguely that no splinters would await her in the soft skin of her arches when she checked later. "I'm sorry, Jarrah. This always happens. That's what we get for buying an inexpensive house." She laughed dryly. "I'll find candles."

He smiled and followed her inside, closing the door as another crack of thunder shook the foundation of the house. Lightning illuminated the inside of the house for a fraction of a second and Kess stumbled over to the small table in the foyer of her home, picked up a pair of square, thin-framed glasses. After she put them on, Jarrah handed her a towel from a stack of clean laundry on the stairs and she dried off more thoroughly. Jarrah had offered to keep her dry when it had started raining, but she'd refused; she loved to stand outside on the lawn, her feet sinking into mud, her skin coated with rain. So, as a result, she was drenched, and Jarrah, who had cheated by using his powers, in her opinion, was completely dry.

Kess ventured into the sitting room to the left of the foyer, a room with an entire wall of windows that revealed, during daylight, the ceiling-to-floor bookshelves that lined the walls. She went to the desk in the corner and Jarrah followed, his steps silent, as if he walked on a cushion of air. _Faery_ _steps_, Kess reminded herself, and smiled. She found candles on the top of the desk and matches in a drawer, then turned around and followed Jarrah into the kitchen. "Oh!" She set the waxy cylinders down on the round wooden table, a great black shadow in the darkness. "I should probably get dry clothes." She felt her friend's smile. "Mind lighting these? I'll be right back." His shape moved in the dark, a graceful not of the head, and he reached for the matches.

Kess darted up the stairs and slipped into her pajamas--fluffy sweatpants and a camisole. She shivered in the air-conditioned room, ran her tongue over her lip ring as she stood in the middle of her bedroom, lost in thought for a quick moment. Then she grabbed a blanket, too, and threw her damp dress into the dirty laundry hamper to deal with later before returning downstairs.

Jarrah had lit the candles and arranged them in a circle in the middle of the table. The flames gave off soft, flickering light that lit up just enough space around them. Kess sighed and dropped into the chair across from her friend.

"I bet you'll get sick again," he voiced aloud, staring at her with obsidian eyes. Kess wrapped herself in the blanket and put her head on the table. Jarrah leaned forward, his hand reached out, pale light enveloping his fingers, ready to use his powers to help her. "Are you okay?"

She made a grunt of affirmation and pushed his hand away without looking up. "Yes. Just tired."

He pulled back but kept his eyes on her. After a beat of silence, he said, "I'm going to have to leave soon. For a few days." His voice was apologetic, as if it pained him to snatch away the promise of flying yet again. He closed his eyes. "I'm--we're--being called back home. It happened while you were upstairs." She looked up at him, saw the bitterness in his eyes. He reached forward to stroke her arm.

"Why? What's wrong? Is it the war? Has something--?" Her questions came quickly only because she understood what ensued between Genesis and Sheol, the heavens and hells that waited in front of her after she died. Jarrah had given her his knowledge of those places over the years he'd known her. Jarrah was a Feylen and at the mercy of the leader of Genesis, could be called back to the third heaven at will.

Her friend shook his head; his hair, a mixture of liquid mercury and inky black, fell into his eyes. "No, Kess. I don't know." His voice was short; was he annoyed with her? "Can you do me a favor, while I'm gone?"

She nodded, waited for him to speak.

"Stay out of trouble. I--I don't know--" He faltered, which was odd for him, Kess thought. Jarrah was always so sure about everything. Pictures, vivid and void of color at once, spilled through her mind at his tone of voice, at the expression the lines of his knitted eyebrows made. She was sensitive to others' feelings, had always been, but was even more keen to that of her sister's and Jarrah's. "Something's happened," he continued. "Just be careful. Please?"

She nodded and dropped her head back down on the table, closed her eyes. The colors faded from her mind slowly, and she began to relax. The rhythmic sound of the rain thrumming against the roof, blending with the constant soothing movement of Jarrah's thumb on her arm, made her sleepy. Lightning flashed periodically, but less often than before; when the thunder rumbled, it was distant. "The storm's moving away," she mumbled, her voice slurred with sudden exhaustion. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she didn't doubt that Jarrah had something to do with the way she was so quickly falling asleep.

"Jarrah," she began to accuse, but she was already drifting out of consciousness...

---

Sunlight spilled across the wooden table and into Kess's eyes when she woke up. Bright light that made the waxy candles, no longer burning, shimmer, and she immediately shut her eyes again. "Too bright," she muttered. Someone laughed across the table; Kess snatched her head from the table and the blanket she'd been wearing slipped from her shoulders. She glared across from her at the girl in front of her. "What the hell, Wystan? You scared me."

Kess's twin laughed. "Sorry," she whispered in a voice identical to Kess's own. They would have looked the same, too--an exact mirror of each other, if Kess hadn't dyed her hair. Wystan's pale brown curls were softer, shorter, pulled back with pins to reveal a face void of any piercings but one simple silver hoop in each ear. When she smiled, her rose-colored lips revealed teeth as straight as her sister's, and both shared the same pale eyes and nearly invisible, long lashes that were enhanced with mascara.

Kess stood up and stretched, not bothering to stop the blanket from falling to the floor. "Where's Jarrah?" she asked while she yawned.

"He left when I got home. I had to stay at Ian's house longer than I'd planned because of the storm." Ian, Wystan's boyfriend. He lived barely a ten minutes' drive away.

"The storm was that bad? And I slept through it?" She thought back and remembered what her best friend had done, then smiled. "Oh." Her grin faded when she also realized that he'd never said when he would be back.

"Yeah. Ian fell asleep before I left." She giggled. "The power's back on, by the way."

"What time is it?" Kess let her gaze roam the small kitchen, her eyes sliding over a petite stove, blue-grey tiles on the floor, light wooden cabinets. Light streamed through the windowpanes above the sink, and Kess heard her stomach growl.

"Seven o'clock," her sister supplied.

Kess's eyes widened. "Seriously? Crap. I have to be at work for my shift in half an hour! Did you make coffee?" Her words spilled out of her mouth in a hurry; she was suddenly frantic, picking up her blanket and folding it with hands that moved too fast.

Wystan stood up. "Yeah, I made some. I'll get it for you while you get dressed."

Kess smiled gratefully. "You're the best." She ran up the stairs quickly, then went into her room. She and Wystan had bought the house together and lived alone, so both had a bedroom to themselves; their parents resided in Virginia's Appalachian Mountains, a lengthy drive from the twins' home by the Maryland shore of the Potomac. Kess sighed and pushed the door of her room open, heading straight to the closet. She grabbed a decent pair of jeans and a striped tank top, then changed and slipped on a pair of plain, black ballet-type flats. She moved into the bathroom, brushed her hair and pulled it back with an elastic band, Glancing at her reflection on her way out, she stopped and realized she's have to wash her face; eye make-up smeared across her cheeks, a result of the previous night's lingering in the rain.

She didn't wait for the water to get warm; instead, she shoved her hands underneath the faucet and splashed cold water over her face, scrubbed at her skin until the make-up was gone. She dried her face, put on lotion, then applied dark mascara and grey and blue eyeshadows. Her toothbrush lay less than an arm's reach from her; she grabbed it, brushed her teeth, then found her waitress apron in her room and made her way back downstairs. As she folded the hideous green apron over her arm, she wondered why on _earth_ she had taken the early morning shift on a Saturday, of all days. _What is wrong with me?_

Wystan sat at the kitchen table, dressed in a dark green dress and sipping from her mug. Another steaming mug of coffee was across from her; Kess sat down and inhaled the wonderful aroma that filled the kitchen, then pressed her fingers around the warm ceramic, took a sip. The coffee was the way she loved it; sugar, no milk. Hot. "Thanks, Wystan," she murmured, blowing steam from the air in front of her. "This is great."

Her twin checked her watch. "Drink quickly," she advised. "I don't know if the roads are messy."

Kess nodded, downed her coffee--too bad if she burned her tongue--and grabbed her keys. "Gotta go." She stood up, blew Wystan a kiss. "Love you!"

"'Bye," Wystan called, but Kess had already left; all that answered her was the soft sound of the door snapping shut.

Kess slid into the front seat of her old VW and threw her bag onto the passenger side. When she turned on the car, the clock read 7:20 a.m.; she swore, backed out of the driveway, sped down the road. If there were trees down, or the part of the road that always flooded was closed, like Wystan had hinted at, Kess would be late. She turned a corner and exhaled with relief; there were larger-than-usual puddles in the road, but nothing severe. She laughed when she drove through them too fast and the muddy water sprayed across her windshield. A few swipes of the windshield wipers erased the droplets of water, and Kess turned on the stereo to listen to whatever CD was in the player while she drove to work.

It took a mere seven minutes to get to the café, and Kess rushed through the door with a few moments to spare. The bell above the door tinkled a welcome when she entered, tying her apron over her clothes. Her "Hello, my name is..." tag was still pinned to her front from her last shift; she barely glanced at it before reaching into her bag to pull out an order pad and few pens to store in her apron pocket. She stuck one behind her left ear as she made her way into the back of the restaurant.

"Mmm, smells good!" she called into the kitchen. She stuck her head through the door and waved at Sonya, the cook. The aroma of fresh coffee and bread flooded Kess's senses; she smiled, closed the door, and settled her belongings on a shelf underneath the ordering counter. Then she grabbed plates, utensils, and napkins, quickly circled the floor, setting each of the small tables deftly and with the air of much practice. Customers wouldn't arrive until eight, but Kess preferred to have everything set up before the café opened. The back door opened and one of the other waiters walked in. "Hey," Finn greeted her; she grinned, punched him playfully in the arm as he passed. "How about that storm last night?"

Kess laughed sheepishly. "I slept through it."

He looked at her incredulously. "You _what_? Kess, the thunderstorm lover, _slept through _the first one of the summer?" He was teasing her, but he was right; Kess did love storms, almost more than was good for her. One reason why summer was her favorite season.

"Well, I was outside for part of it," she confessed. "Jarrah was with me." Finn knew Jarrah well; he came to the café often, sometimes to eat, sometimes just to visit his closest friend. "And then the power went out again," she added with a groan. "I'm running out of candles."

Finn laughed, but his words were serious. "You really should get that checked out," he advised. "Shitty electricity sucks."

Kess nodded in agreement and slipped back behind the counter. "Got that right." She went over to the coffee pot and poured some for herself into a Styrofoam cup. "Want some?" she asked Finn, and he nodded. "Please. Carie and I were up all night. I need major caffeine." Kess shook her head and poured another cup for him, unsurprised that his girlfriend had stayed over in his tiny apartment with him yet again.

They leaned against the counter and sipped their coffee for a moment in silence. Kess let the hot liquid slide down her throat, savoring its bitter taste, imagining the caffeine making its way into her blood, waking her up, supplying false energy. _Oh, the wonders of coffee_. She checked her phone for the time: nearly eight o'clock. "Time to unlock the door," she announced, and Finn jumped up, tenderly setting his cup down on the counter.

"My turn!"

Kess scoffed. "Go for it." She rolled her eyes. "Can't believe you actually get _excited_ about opening."

The customers trickled in soon after eight; regulars, familiar faces that Kess saw every Saturday and whose orders she knew by heart. She found herself busy, swept up in the concentration of taking orders, keeping conversation with the solo diners, bringing out plates of delicious-smelling breakfast foods. The sound of the bell above the door became an almost constant noise as customers came and left, and time blurred, going by quickly the way it did only when Kess was waitressing. Business slowed around ten-thirty, and she let Finn take care of his section and let their busboy clean up hers, now empty for a few precious minutes. She wiped her forehead, pushing her long, red bangs out of her face with the pencil she kept behind her ear. She hadn't had time to think about Jarrah for nearly three hours; now, though, she sat behind the counter, drinking a second cup of coffee, wondering why he had left so suddenly. Despite his dismissal of her mention of the war the night before, Kess speculated that his disappearance had something to do with it. New information, perhaps? Or just his God complaining, feeling the need to have his trusted Feylens with him for a few days?

The bell rang above the din of the few customers still seated; Kess automatically looked up towards the door. The two people that entered the building weren't familiar; Kess had become accustomed to memorizing faces, and she knew she hadn't seen the dark-skinned girl with hundreds of braids sprouting from her head before, nor the young man, pale beside her luminescent beauty. But her senses recognized the girl immediately as a Feylen, and she watched with an odd sense of relief as they sat down in her section. She was by their table in moments, pouring ice water into their empty glasses. "Can I get you something to drink?" she began, her pen poised above a clean order sheet.

The dark girl waved her hand, cutting Kess off. "Just coffee for me. We're not getting food." Kess glanced at the other customer, who smiled thinly and shook his head. _Nothing for him, then--_

Kess blinked, confused for the brief moment she had met his eyes. Up close, the pale human looked more like a woman than a man; the blonde hair was cropped in a style seen more often on young women, and the shape of the body was more feminine. Were her eyes _red_? Kess blinked again and shook her head, then glanced again at the Feylen's companion. No, not red. Dark brown...The Feylen cleared her throat and Kess looked at her. "Oh--" she stammered. "Sorry." She backed away, unable to keep her eyes away from the pale woman for a few more breathless moments. Then she wrenched her gaze from her and turned around, fled behind the counter to pour coffee in a ceramic mug.

Her hands shook and her breathing was uneven. She nearly spilled the coffee as she poured it out, and when she turned around, Finn was watching her. "Are you all right?" he inquired, and she managed a nod.

"I must have had too much coffee," she lied. Her excuse satisfied him, though, and she pushed past him to set the mug on a tray and bring it over to the table. "Your coffee," she whispered when she set the drink down in front of the strange Feylen. She straightened and studied the darker girl for a moment, then opened her mouth to speak. "Do you know Jarrah?" She hadn't planned on saying the words that came out, but managed to avoid blushing and instead waited for the girl's answer.

She looked at Kess incredulously, as if she were crazy. "Who?"

Kess swallowed, took an involuntary step backwards. "Never mind, I just thought--" She shook her head. "Enjoy your coffee. My name is--is Kess. Call me over if you need anything." She forced out the words, tried to make them sound normal, then turned around and fled from the table for the second time that morning.

Had she been wrong about the woman, about her being a Feylen? Kess didn't usually make mistakes like that; her senses had sharpened from being around Jarrah for so many years, and she could pick out a Feylen from a crowd of humans in seconds. And she was fairly sure all of the Feylens knew each other; Jarrah had once mentioned a connection of some sort...so why didn't the girl recognize his name? Kess grabbed a damp cloth and mopped up spilled coffee on the counter. She glanced at the couple sitting at the table from under her lashes, saw them speaking softly together. The black-haired girl's coffee was untouched, sitting by her elbow with the spoon on the saucer. Kess must have stared too long; the blonde looked up and met her gaze. Suddenly the eyes were garnet again, and a voice pressed into her mind: _She is a fallen Feylen. Not your friend's kind. Stop thinking, human. You'll hurt yourself._

Kess panicked, dropping the cloth she held on the floor. She followed it, going to her knees to grab it off the tiles. "Finn," she said, a little above a whisper. He was there in a moment. Her vision blurred. "Can you take the table with the two girls over there? I don't feel well." She looked up at him in time to see him nod and pat her shoulder. When he walked away, she stood up, bolted into the kitchen.

Sonya stood by the stove, humming along to the song on the radio and flipping pancakes. Breakfast ended in fifteen minutes, but someone must have gotten a late start to the day. The cook glanced over at Kess. "You all right, sweetheart?" She was a comfortably plump woman, around thirty years old, with honey-colored hair pulled up on the top of her head to keep it out of the way while she was cooking.

Kess nodded numbly without thinking about her gesture. It had been _years_ since anyone but Jarrah had been inside her head. And he did that rarely. So rarely that she had forgotten the panic it brought her to have someone invading her mind. "Can I help you?" she asked.

Sonya smiled and jerked a thumb towards the dishwasher. "You can load that. It's about time to wash them. Gotta get it done before the lunch rush."

"Okay." Kess didn't bother to explain that she'd get to leave at noon, as soon as one of the other waitresses showed up. Sonya was distracted, only needed another pair of hands in the kitchen to help. Kess complied, walked over to the sink and loaded the dishwasher with mechanic, monotonous movements. She checked her phone when she finished, saw that she had half an hour left on her shift. Would the two girls be gone by now? She glanced through the door, which was opened a crack, saw that the table was empty and could breathe again. Another family sat in her section, however, and she knew, somehow, that they were completely normal. "Sonya," she said aloud. "I finished. There's a table I have to get to."

"Go ahead," she replied, distracted. "Tell them breakfast is over."

Kess smiled, one corner of her lips turning up, and shouldered the door open, grabbed her order pad from the counter. Whatever those girls were, she wouldn't think about them now. Work came first. And it was almost time to leave; the four hours had gone by fast, as always when the café was busy. She headed over to the table, introduced herself to the small kids seated by their parents. Put on a stretched-out smile that looked natural to any customer not looking close enough while she wondered, _When I get home, will Jarrah be back?_


	2. Sheol: Michael

The glass hit the bar with the usual grace, landing softly on the thin cork coaster as the door opened and the bell chimed. Eyes dilated from the dark of the bar, Michael glanced at the television, unable to stand the bright hues for more than a second at a time. Still, a second was all he had needed to focus in on the two teams that were playing, discover that the bases were loaded, New York was up by seven, and he had been drinking for the last hour. It was a gift the Albicas were granted; photographic memories were only an element of their complex skill. Michael raised his eyes to the bartender and motioned for another round of shots; he was no Albica, but sometimes, it felt that way.

Bells chimed once more as the door to the bar was opened. This time a more familiar face entered, and Michael casually threw a smile towards the woman who had come in. Every city had its share of slums, and it seemed as if DC was lucky to have so many low-ambition lives that thrived on underachievment. The woman who had entered was no different, and she owned the apartment besides Michael on the southeast side of the city. While he personally could afford million dollar estates, he left his profit in savings and in the hands of brokers who would die before failure; to all onlookers, he was an ordinary man, coming, going, and drinking in between.

It had been nearly a thousand years since he had felt anything from drinking large amounts of alcohol, but no one seemed to ask any questions when he went on a tenth round of shots. The bartender merely nodded to the bottle behind the counter and told him the tab's estimate before continuing her business. Michael sighed, trying to hide his irritation with the cigarette smoke that filled the air, and instead reached to the fresh set of glasses on the counter in front of him, barely blinking as he threw his head back.

"Drinking off a job?"

Michael tossed the glass back onto the counter, the wood barely cracking as the two collided. The question had come from a Drakkon, one who had known Michael even before his acceptance into the Fourth Ring. As clever as she was, however, she had never been one for loyalty; Sasha sat down next to Michael at the bar and flagged down the bartender for a Long Island Ice Tea.

"Or is this just for kicks?" she asked, nodding to the empty shot glass that Michael had tossed onto the counter. Her jeans hung low on her hips and the red cami she was dawning did no justice to hide that she was cold. Eyes of an emerald green stared out from under the flap of her beret, and she made no attempt to hide her longing expression.

"Lilith wants to see you." Sasha continued, having received no answer from Michael. She expected him to be quiet; after all, he was rumored among Sheol to be the straightest line from life to death. While she herself belonged with the Drakkon, the vampire-like creatures that lived to serve Sheol in the first ring, Michael was one of the Kier, a complex kind whose complete power was almost unstoppable. Humans often mistook the Kier for what they considered to be "demons." This fact had risen sometime in the early nineteenth century, when it was custom to never act within Sheol's bounds without disguising your identity. Needless to say, the practice had stopped.

Sasha waited for the reply that wasn't coming, and watched as Michael spun his shot and then took it clean, swallowing the complete glass in one go. Alcohol wasn't necessarily a pleasing substance to the Drakkon. Instead, it was like forcing a human to drink turpentine. The Kier, however, were given a different system, and therefore could drink it as if it were water.

"Lilith wants to see you," Sasha repeated, leaning forward to make her words louder. She was careful not to aggravate the Kier. After turning to scan the bar for any Genesis members, she added quickly, "It's about Genesis. The damn Feylens caught one of our own- set up a spy. Who knows how much information they've got their hands on-"

The door chimed as it was open, and both Michael and Sasha were quick to inspect the new customer. A quick glance was enough to tell them that the man was human, but they wanted to be careful, and let their gazes linger for a few seconds before continuing. Michael took another shot and reached for the bottle to pour himself a final round.

"Jet!" Sasha snapped, Michael's skin crawling at the sound of the nickname he had earned himself, "Lilith won't do well with waiting. If you... took care of business, you should be back with her."

Sasha was careful not to mention that Michael's business had happened to be killing a Nammid, who, to everyone else, had appeared to be a seventeen year old girl. Her face had been plastered all over the evening news as the police tried to track down a hunter that wouldn't be caught even if he turned himself in. Lilith had handed him her papers, the sheets of collected information Sheol had gathered on the target, earlier that morning; it had taken him less than an hour to complete. He hadn't had a complicated task in over one hundred years, but he wasn't about to admit that he was one of the reasons Sheol was at war with Genesis. After all, the Feylens had done enough to ensure that the fighting would not cease.

"Well then," Michael answered at last, his voice deep and smooth over the sound of the bar, "It would be best not to keep her waiting, wouldn't it?"

Michael reached for his back pocket and pulled a black leather wallet from the fabric. Without looking to the amount, he pulled two large bills from the leather and slid them across the counter to the bartender. Uninterested in the Drakkon that he had seen so many times before handling work for the First Ring, Michael stepped away from the counter, and headed for the door that had opened and shut so many times already. Sasha followed closely out the door, and into the steam-filled streetway of the city outside.

"You don't need to follow me," Michael hissed back at the Drakkon, who was eying the surrounding area cautiously. Even for a member of Sheol, she was at risk; the Genesis fighters were in every corner they could fit into, and for the Nammids, that was almost anywhere. While Sasha was on high alert, Michael felt perfectly at ease, if there was such a thing. His definition of ease would undoubtedly be a manic stress for a human. The adrenaline rush in his system was constant, and the "come and get me" attitude he carried was only for show. Internally, he hated this world, and what part he played in it.

It had been a long winter to him, the two hundred years he had been hunting and fighting on behalf of Sheol; fifty had been spent underground. In disbelief of his state, he had let the humans bury him, locking him seven feet deep in the cold ground. When Lilith uncovered him, she helped him to grow, and in a few short years he had joined the Fourth Ring. His loyalty to her was unmatched, but still, his anger with reality grew. Before the fifty years underground, he had been a Feylen.

Michael remembered what it felt like to fly, but didn't long for it as much as he wanted to. When he had fallen from Genesis, he had lost the woman he loved, and not only that, but he had gained a chance for revenge at the world that had mistreated him before. About a year of that revenge was enough. Now, he wanted nothing more than escape, or trap in the crypt. He would never betray Sheol, but it was slowly becoming nothing to betray.

Sasha was still at his heels when he stopped over a smoking sewer. His eyes were narrow with a hollow hatred as he faced her.

"Go home, Drakkon."

"Not without the key," she answered, holding out her hand. Michael rolled his eyes. The key she had asked for was one of many that opened a safe in Lilith's possession. No one in Sheol knew its contents, but the key and ninety-nine lookalikes were circling hands. Both the safe and the keys had been stolen from Genesis in a raid the previous year, and they were precious items.

Michael reached into his pocket and pulled a gold key from the denim of his jeans. He raised it between the Drakkon's eyes and his own, and then placed it in her palm, adding quickly, "Now get as far away from me as you can, or you'll regret it." As soon as the key entered her possession, Sasha heeded the warning, and took off in a brisk run in the opposite direction.

"Leech." Michael whispered, taking comfort in the shade of the nearby building. Between the shadows of the tall housing and the night, no one would have noticed that he had stepped back into the shadows, and pulled a second gold key from his suede jacket. The one he had handed off to Sasha had been one of the ninety-nine decoys, but the one he had kept was entrusted to him alone. Lilith knew better than to leave her most prized possession in the hands of anyone less. Sighing in a sickly contempt, Michael pulled the chain that the key was hanging from out of his coat, and wrapped it around his neck. If anyone were to try and take it, his existence would be the fight.

Finally assured that the Drakkon had accepted the key and left for the night, Michael stepped back into the sidewalk's light, and continued on his way to the damaged apartment he called his home. He was satisfied with it. After all, it was better than anything he had owned fifty years ago, but it was hardly the American standard of middle class. If it could even be called middle class, it was entirely on the lower end of that spectrum. Occupying the top floor of the apartment building, it was a spacious living area, clean, and well decorated. Still, reaching it meant walking through the projects, and climbing fourteen flights of stairs because the elevator was broken.

It was only a two mile walk to the building from the bar, and while a human would take their time accomplishing the distance, Michael had an advantage, and arrived in under twenty minutes. Not only was he faster, but he had lived in the area long enough to know the alleys that shaved three blocks off a trip, or the roofs that could be jumped from complex to complex. Flashing his controlled eyes to the drug dealers across from the building, Michael stepped inside, and opened the metal door to the cement stairwell to begin his climb. The numbers went by slowly, but his steps were mechanical, his motions completely accustomed. Even so, his movement bothered him. Just that morning, he had gone down those steps, aiming to end the life of a Nammid that had only just been given a second chance. It seemed wrong, no matter if he was a member of Sheol, to be congratulating himself on killing her, and worse to be climbing the steps to undoubtedly do it again.

Consciously, he knew there was nothing that could be done. His loyalty and respect among Sheol was unmatched, but why? Genesis had been his true resting place; his failure within bounds had been out of passion, emotion, and jealousy. He had _loved _Alyson. If she had never met the other human, she would have loved him as well. It was out of desperation that Michael had done what he had. There was never any thought to what he was doing: all he knew was that he wanted her, and when he had tried to kill the man, it had never been to dishonor Genesis.

Michael ran his fingers through his brown hair and reached into his pocket for his keyring. Within seconds, he had found it, and he unlocked the thick metal door that led to his floor. The lights were all off inside from what he could tell, which almost guaranteed that he would be alone, but when the door shut behind him, he knew otherwise. Thickening waves of throbbing pain ached throughout his skull, and he smiled slyly in the coarse welcome.

"Well, well, well..."

The feminine voice struck him from the darkness like ice in the midst of fire. Michael stepped forward through the dark room, knowing his way well enough to go without a light, and let his eyes adjust. He slowly let his gaze fall on the figure leaning against the far wall, and traced the curve of the woman with sharp accuracy. It would be foolish of him not to recognize the fiery perfection that in humans could never be natural.

"You're late, Jet."

Michael reached his guest with a silent step, extending his arms to her waistline. She made no move to avoid him, but instead slid her slender fingers over his shoulders, and pulled her hips to his own.

"You'll have to forgive me," Michael whispered, lowering his lips to the woman's throat. He had never been able to help himself; although the Kier possessed the same hunger as the Drakkon, their control was great enough that they were expected not to feed. Even though he would not allow himself the pleasure of breaking skin, he enjoyed the ecstasy of the pulse against his lips. A longing groan escaped from his breath as he pulled her tighter, caressing her neckline with kisses that meant nothing but loyalty.

"Did you do what I asked?" she questioned, pressing her wrists against Michael's ears. The trick was cruel; the Keir had heightened senses, and her pulse ricocheted throughout his eardrums, only tempting him further. His thoughts were already racing with reasons that he could feed her. He knew that if he were to take what he wanted, she would feel nothing but pleasure, a sin that she so graciously cherished. Michael tore her wrists from their positions against him and pulled her fingers to his lips, answering her softly.

"Of course I did."

The woman leaned her head back and laughed, her voice wicked in a sweetly sinister way. Michael tried to distract himself, but had no sooner let her go that she continued to taunt him. Her laughter had stopped, but when she returned her eyes to him, her lower lip was covered in the crimson nectar that he wanted so desperately. She latched onto him like a parasite, her wrists at his ears and her lips just inches from his own. His senses were overwhelming him; the sound of her pulse was beating throughout his body, the scent of the blood was intoxicating, the sight of it had caused a rush of adrenaline to spread through his veins, and it was all he wanted to sink into her throat.

The game was sickening. Michael became this demon whenever she was around, a pawn to her twisted fantasies. She played with her creations the way that children played with dolls. Every move she made was to have her will met, and if she was not assigning tasks, she was fulfilling her personal pleasures. Seven sins controlled her, and seven sins burdened him. A deep sigh rose in Michael's throat as he tried to fight the desire burning in his system.

"Lilith," he snapped, his breath quick as he fought to find an explanation for her sudden interest in taunting him, "What do you want from me?"

The woman kissed him with bloody lips, making him shudder with the final loss of control. Before he had time to control himself, he had pushed her back into the wall, dust surrounding him as the sheet rock caved to his strength. His jaw ached with the new weight of his fangs, an accessory he hadn't worn in years, but the feeling was nowhere near strong enough to hide how badly he wanted her. Lilith laughed sharply as he broke into her skin, his grip on her body filled with the Drakkon's trademark lust. It was only seconds then that he fully broke the vein, and Lilith's laughter gave way to a series of pleasure-laced sighs.

Michael silenced himself from admitting his own pleasure when the demon fell weak in his grip. Her sighs became less frequent, and her breathing faster, a sign that she was calming in the blood loss. Unsatisfied but regaining control, Michael pulled away, brushing the sweat on her brow as he held her body to his own in support. Normally, he would have considered his possible punishment, but it was all too obvious that Lilith had wanted his lapse in judgment. The room went silent as Michael pulled himself under lock and key, except for Lilith, who continued to breath heavily.

"Good boy," Lilith whispered, lying her head on Michael's shoulder as he supported her bodyweight, "Very good."

Michael tried not to listen as the strange appearance of the situation caught up to him. A fallen angel was apparently not a suiting title, and now, he was feeding from Satan herself? He pushed the thoughts from his mind and stepped to the side of his superior, allowing her to move from the wall that now needed repairs. In an act of generosity, Lilith rested her hand on the sheet rock, and in seconds, the drywall had mended to its previous state. The power she possessed had always fascinated Michael; fascinated and consumed him.

"You're aware, Jet, of the little... hell... we're in?" Lilith asked, her question followed by light laughter. Her comment had been referring to the spy that had reported information to Genesis, and it would be absurd to think that Michael knew nothing of it. Everyone knew, and had to be extra cautious because of it. There had been no clarification on who the spy was, or what all had been disclosed; just that there had been an unintentional leak. Michael pushed himself from the wall, swallowing the lingering taste of blood in his mouth, and locked his eyes with the Devil's.

"Well aware, my mistress," he answered, sure to obey the laws of respect that she had laid for all of Sheol, "But I know nothing more than you. I spent three hours tracking Feylens this morning... none were of any particular interest. All are dead."

Lilith laughed and dropped her arms in a slouching manner, throwing her eyes to the ceiling in a dramatic fashion that seemed almost inappropriate.

"This is what I love about you, Jet!" she yelled, standing up straight and falling back against the wall. Michael wasn't sure of what had invaded her system, but he knew that she wasn't completely sober, and unlike the multiple rings of both Genesis and Sheol, the leaders were practically human.

Long before the war, it had been decided that the only way to understand the human race was to join them, and the leaders had. While they did not age and they contained power specific to their reign, they could be killed almost as easily as any human could. The reason they remained so untouchable lay in the numbers of allies they had; if Genesis were to fall, millions of its members would be in the mood for revenge. In fact, for almost every one human, there was one member of Genesis, and one of Sheol; humans had discovered this long ago and dismissed it as myth, instead subscribing to the "angel on the shoulder" theory.

"You're so apathetic," Lilith continued, "Such a killer. Cold. Heartless. I love it-"

Michael smiled to appear as if he enjoyed her comments, but instead, he hated them. He knew he was a killer, but it didn't appeal to him. He did it because he had to. If, for whatever reason, he were to tell Lilith that he no longer wished to kill, or disobey Sheol in any manner, he would be disowned by Sheol entirely, and be considered Fallen. When a member of Genesis or Sheol was considered Fallen, they were sent to an area similar to the human definition of Purgatory. If the other side did not take them in, they were doomed to fate within the bounds, and it usually involved being born again human. Michael could not risk excommunication: he had already fallen from Genesis.

"Do you want to know how many you've killed?" Lilith asked, but the question was not in need of an answer. Instead, the woman placed her hand on Michael's shoulder, and closed her eyes with the touch of skin on his lower neck. He knew that she was reading him like an open book, flipping through his past as if the pages were bold and neatly ordered.

"Nearly a thousand, Jet," she whispered, falling against him with the grace that seemed unnatural for someone so evil, "I knew you had this... this strength. It's why I offered you this chance... the glory. Pride. Lust... unsuitable for members of Genesis... they call themselves Angels, but they have no fun, no peace, no love for the touch- we could end this crusade, Jet-"

Michael closed his eyes, partially entranced by the melodic tone of her voice. She seemed so innocent, so pure, and so frail, but he knew better. Her power rested in the very sins he had avoided as a human. Once again, he was fighting himself, and fighting the hold she could gain on him. He had to get out of this somehow; he knew what was coming. The offer was all too constant.

"We could win this together... sign your name, Jet..."

Michael tried to distract himself. The Silent War between the heaven and the hell was taking a toll on both sides, and if one side were to gain an advantage, the war could be decided. Signing the Devil's Book was a phrase given to Lilith's means of gaining power; she kept contracts, so that a member of Sheol could die at her hands in exchange for a peaceful resting in the final rest of the fifth ring. She inherited the soul as if it were oxygen.

"Not yet," Michael whispered, fighting the offer that seemed so appealing. If he were to rest, he would no longer have to kill. He would be free to an eternity of calm. On the other hand, his strength to Lilith's could be the one soul to win over Genesis- it was widely accepted that one member of the fourth ring might be all that would be needed. Michael would not be the one to bring Hell to the humans, not when he longed for humanity, "Wouldn't you rather I be stronger... ?"

Lilith laughed, accepting his answer as the truth. She didn't think to doubt that he didn't want to help Sheol further- his intentions seemed nothing but true with the numbers he had killed.

"You're right," she replied quietly, stepping away from her follower, "You could be stronger... but there are others who show no improvement. There is a member of the Mist who shows promise. Adrian Martelle. Know of him?"

The question was almost comical. Every member of Sheol knew of Adrian Martelle. He had gained a reputation at first for his acts of stupidity, of causing rumors to spread of ghosts and hauntings. When rumors spread, the humans were more alert, and things were more complicated. It was easier when things were untouched. Once the rumors had settled in the late 1900's, Adrian had begun his quest to become a member of the fourth ring. His killings were ruthless, and he showed no sign of pity or weakness.

"Yes, my mistress," Michael answered, eying the sofa just feet away to his side. His night had been long, and although members of the fourth ring were notorious for never settling, he had too much to think about. Lilith noticed his attention and smiled, her lips curving slyly.

"Go to sleep, little man," she hushed him, wandering for the door where her coat was thrown over the hooks on the wall, "But be alert tomorrow. If Genesis wants a war, we'll give them a war."

Michael watched silently as she left, and then threw himself down against the furniture, angry. He was tired of being Lilith's pawn, a killer, but more than that, a name that every member of Genesis feared. No one spoke to him unless they were just as cold as he had become, but he needed the contact. Needed the outreach. If it were his decision, he would have fallen from Sheol long ago; but it wasn't his decision. It was the devil's inside of him.


End file.
